


Soldier

by avanti_90



Series: Lord Gregor [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Time Period: Reign of Serg Vorbarra (AU), Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanti_90/pseuds/avanti_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serg Vorbarra survives the Escobar War, and Cordelia is taken prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Implied prisoner abuse, Implied Prince Serg being himself.

The Barrayaran flagship's brig was silent as a grave, only the occasional muffled footsteps of a passing soldier penetrating the door of Cordelia's cell. Cordelia tossed uncomfortably, trying to find a comfortable place to rest her sore side on the bed. Her broken and bandaged ribs felt much better now, the ache dulled by the heavy dose of painkillers the surgeon had given her. She could feel them seeping through her body, making her muscles relax and her eyelids fall. Clearly Barrayaran intelligence had access to better drugs than their medics; these were not at all like Vorkosigan’s smooth interrogation drugs that left no trace. 

That thought brought back a sharp pain, only this time not in her ribs. He had betrayed her too – no. Vorkosigan had done his duty, she told herself, no more and no less. It was Cordelia who had let herself get too trusting; she’d forgotten that he would always put his duty before everything else. Who was she to say she wouldn’t have done the same in his place?

But she wouldn't have been able to hide it from him. Vorkosigan had proved to be a better actor than she would ever have guessed. Her mind flew back over the past two days, over all Vorkosigan's words, his sudden piercing glances at her when he thought she was asleep; whenever he’d done it, he hadn’t given away the smallest hint. He’d mentioned allies on the ship who would help him conceal her - had one of them slipped him the drug, perhaps in that extra packet of dinner? The surgeon, probably... 

 _Enough._ Cordelia closed her eyes and tried to stop that train of thought. But it was surprisingly hard to remove thoughts of Vorkosigan from her mind.

Well, it no longer mattered. They’d won the war, and Vorkosigan must have completed his retreat by now. Soon enough he would open negotiations for a prisoner exchange, and Cordelia would go home. And Vorkosigan would go home too, back to Barrayar and to his tangled web of service and politics. She’d probably never see him again.

Cordelia twisted uneasily, rubbing a still painful spot above one rib. She’d barely scratched the surface of Barrayaran politics in her few conversations with Vorkosigan. Though he had been wary and occasionally mystifying, his words had given Cordelia a glimpse of something cruel and twisted, with no clear beginning or end. She’d gotten Vorkosigan into trouble the last time they’d met; surely no one could make him a scapegoat for this? Surely not, though he was the commander now, neither the war nor its outcome had been his fault, and the debacle would only prove that he had been right all along... 

She was disturbed by the sudden thud of boots outside her cell. Then she heard the muffled voices of men, and finally a single voice rising above the others. Cordelia sat up, ignoring a renewed stab of pain, and listened hard.

"-- do not  _care_  what the barracks-lawyers say, Commodore. _I_ am your commander, and my word should be enough for you – should it not?"

Cordelia pulled herself off the bunk and went to the door. She crouched uncomfortably with her eye to the keyhole and squinted. She saw green dress uniforms all around, and one of the Barrayarans seemed to be leaning on a cane, his leg and hand bandaged. She could only see one face – her stomach lurched. It was Vorkosigan in the center, held back by two men.

But he didn’t seem to be resisting at all as they forced him down to his knees. His head was bowed, all his commanding presence gone, as the injured man bent over him.

Cordelia nearly gasped as she recognized a face she had seen in her briefings.

Prince Serg Vorbarra was alive - and Vorkosigan was no longer in command.

"Did you think I'd fall for your scheme, Vorkosigan?” the Prince demanded, his voice rising. “First you and that Betan of yours conspire to kill Ges, then you hide your Betan, and when I’m gone, you _steal my fleet_ and run away to save your cowardly skin! Did you truly think you would get away with it? You left clues everywhere, you fool. Your friends couldn’t protect you forever.”

The cane rose sharply, and Cordelia suppressed a gasp once again as she heard it fall. Vorkosigan’s head swung with the blow, but he did nothing. "A small taste," hissed the Prince, "of what will come for this treason,  _Lord Vorkosigan_. Not even your father can save you this time." He turned abruptly. “Put him next door to his Betan. They can comfort each other in the dark.”

There was a moment of tense, heavy silence. “Well?” the Prince demanded dangerously. “What are you all waiting for?”

The men moved quickly, and Cordelia heard a creak as the door of the next cell opened. She listened silently as Vorkosigan was thrown in, the door closed and locked behind him. It was a minute before she heard the sound of retreating feet.

Cordelia slid down to the floor and sat still, fear coursing through her. She knew little of the Prince, but she had caught a brief glimpse of Vorkosigan’s face as they dragged him away. She would never forget his eyes as they’d looked at the closed door of her cell, dimmed with a silent, grieving apology.

 

***

 

Cordelia held her breath as the guard's footsteps paused outside her door. She relaxed only when he passed away on his rounds. _Just stopping to say goodbye_. The Political Officers who ran the Ministry’s holding cells were all familiar, hated faces to her now. 

Too familiar; she found that she could no longer remember how long she had inhabited the cell. A month, or more, perhaps? She’d kept careful count of days in the beginning, but as her imprisonment drew on with no legal resolution in sight, days and nights began to fade into each other.   
  
_All that is over_. Or it would be over, in a few more hours. She’d received a visitor last morning - one of Emperor Serg's men, a young ImpSec commander. He’d surveyed her with a detached, almost emotionless gaze as he handed her a sheet of paper sealed with black wax, bearing the instantly recognizable imprint of raised sword and olive leaves. Cordelia was to die at dawn.   
  
No word had been written of  _how_  she would die. She supposed Serg enjoyed making her wonder. She could imagine him making it a grand public spectacle. She could equally well imagine him doing it behind closed doors, with his own sickening hands, enjoying every moment. She'd tried to put it out of her mind; let this be her last defiance, to deny him the satisfaction of torment.  
  
That Cordelia was a Betan citizen seemed to make no difference to anyone. The Emperor’s spoken word was law on Barrayar; interstellar treaties could be discarded at will, or at least Barrayar’s new Emperor seemed to think so. She’d heard whispers of Betan fury, of diplomatic threats, but she could hardly expect Beta Colony to start another war over her, plasma mirrors or no.   
  
So she'd put aside both fear and hope, and instead stayed awake all through the night, composing unheard goodbyes: to her mother, her brother, her sister-in-law, her young nephew and the niece she would never have a chance to see. After what seemed like hours she’d started on her friends in the Survey, going through past crews one by one, holding their memories like treasures on a newly discovered world.  _I forgive you for tricking me out of my command. It doesn’t matter anymore. You were the best first officer I ever had; I wish I’d said so. Ensign Dubauer, I’m sorry._  
  
After friends came beloved enemies. There was Bothari, who'd saved her for whatever brief time, and had been loyal to her in his own strange way. But now Bothari was gone, an axe-blade fallen over his head, and Cordelia would follow him.  _May you come to know a better peace, Sergeant._    
  
And now the face that wouldn’t leave her mind was Vorkosigan’s. She had known him for only a few days, and yet somehow this last farewell was at least as painful as any other. A few muffled sounds filtered in from the world beyond her cell, disturbing her finely crafted peace. Cordelia tried to ignore them.  
  
Her fists clenched around the thin unwashed cloth. Vorkosigan was of their warrior caste; they would kill him slowly. He’d described it to Cordelia himself. But his words of starvation and poison had seemed so distant then. Now they were an image that haunted Cordelia’s scattered hours of sleep. She wished, pointlessly, that she could have seen him once before the end. But what would she have said? _I forgive you for interrogating me?_  Or, utterly useless:  _I love you?_  Or, best and worst of all:  _I wish I’d said yes?_

There was a sudden crash from outside, and Cordelia jumped. After a few moments she heard a faint click, and the door began to slide open. Cordelia blinked and shielded her eyes against the light, then tensed as she discerned the unmistakable outline of a nerve disruptor.  _Is it time already? I thought I’d have more time…_

The door opened fully, and Cordelia saw a man’s silhouette framed in the light. Abruptly, all the words she’d thought of died on her lips. She would never forget the shape of that body.

Vorkosigan looked terrible, his face pale and haggard, his prison clothes as ragged as hers. Did she look like that? Cordelia had a sudden absurd wish for a mirror. But Vorkosigan was here - here, and he was alive. She suppressed the cry of joy that would have brought guards running, and instead stumbled across the cell to put her arms around him. His hands clutched at her - they were sticky, and there was blood on her elbow - what had he done?

“Dear Captain,” he said, resting his head against hers. “You’re alive. I thought I was too late…” 

 _Dear Captain._ How long since she’d heard that, and yet, how strangely familiar… “Looks like you do get to rescue me after all,” she murmured, holding him closer as if she could reassure herself of his reality. But Vorkosigan didn’t seem to see the humor. He drew back, searching her face with silent agony in her eyes. Cordelia knew perfectly well what a wreck she looked like.

"My Captain," Vorkosigan whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Surely he didn’t think she was still angry over that interrogation, so long ago? She touched a hand briefly to his lips, silencing him. “You have nothing to be sorry for. And thank you.”

She heard raised voices approaching from the distance. Vorkosigan was still in the doorway; he looked like he, too, needed rescuing.  “Come on,” Cordelia said firmly, taking his arm and leading him outside. "I think it’s time to get out of here."

She was never certain how they did it, but in the  end they stumbled out into the light together, leaning on each other for support.

 

***

 

They ended up in a remote corner of Vorkosigan’s District; the first place Serg would think to look, Vorkosigan told her, but also the only place where they could rely on shelter and protection. Cordelia found it strangely peaceful. The clean, fresh air made her feel as if she’d traveled back to a time before war, walking with Vorkosigan across that unnamed planet –  _Sergyar_ , now. The name repelled her, and not only for its unashamed show of pride. It was as if Serg had cast his shadow across something that had once been shared between her and Vorkosigan alone.

Strange how it seemed a place of safety to her now; she could face blood-sucking parasites more easily than uniformed humans. And it was easier to connect this mountainous landscape with - that world - than with Barrayar. Barrayar was, in the deepest associations of Cordelia’s mind, a prison cell.

She was sitting outside the cave that served as this week's shelter when she heard the crack of branches. She tensed, raising her stunner before she recognized Vorkosigan’s footsteps. She kept it aimed and ready until he came into view. 

“It’s only me,” he said quietly, raising a hand as he approached. Cordelia lowered the stunner with a sigh and accepted the rough cloth bag Vorkosigan carried. She began rummaging through the contents. There was food, dark chunks of bread, fruits and even milk; a good day for them. Her hand reached the bottom of the bag and found an unexpected texture. “What’s this?”

Vorkosigan’s expression closed as she drew out a thin folded sheet of paper. “Kly came back.”

Cordelia felt a sudden surge of delight. Vorkosigan had sent only one message since their escape, merely informing his father that he lived. But he had also activated some long-forgotten chain of couriers from the Cetagandan occupation, and somehow they’d managed to get to the Betan Embassy.

She hastily opened the letter. Even the feel of synthetic Betan paper under her fingers, not the wasteful wood-pulp still common on Barrayar, was a welcome touch of home. _For Captain Cordelia Naismith, Betan Astronomical Survey…_

She read the opening lines several times before she managed to go on. A smile began to spread across her face as she read. “They're offering you asylum!”

“I know,” he answered. Cordelia looked up, concerned. His eyes were dull, showing little sign of emotion. It was as she’d suspected, then: he wasn’t truly looking forward to Beta. It was simply the path of least resistance.

The worst part was that she couldn't blame him. The Betans would be kind, but they would drain him for information until there was not a drop left. For a man of Vorkosigan’s unflinching loyalty, it would be worse than torture. But there was nothing left for him on this planet except death.

Vorkosigan only sat with her and went over the letter line by line, absorbing the list of instructions, routes and safe words and meeting places. There was a shielded comm number for them to call once they were safely in Vorbarr Sultana. And then there was a diplomatic shuttle, one even Serg wouldn’t dare to shoot down, not yet. And then there was home. For her, at least.

What would happen afterwards, Cordelia didn’t know. Vorkosigan had not spoken of his old offer of marriage. He was lost in some waking nightmare of his own. Cordelia had watched him staring into the distance for hours on end, speaking to her less and less as the days passed, sleeping even less.

She could understand nightmares; Vorkosigan woke her from enough of them. But the names he whispered in his sleep had nothing to do with Serg or prison.  _Korabik, Aristede, Helski..._ men who had died at Escobar. Cordelia tried to help, but all her efforts seemed useless. She couldn’t understand what he was going through; she hadn’t lost her friends to old Emperor Ezar’s foolish, pointless war.

Perhaps when they were on Beta, she could help him find a good therapist. And one for herself. Yes, she decided, that would be best. Beta might not be perfect, but it would be far better than where they were now, two walking wounded trying to treat each other. Perhaps one day that haunted look would leave his eyes, and he would be able to start a new life in peace.

Perhaps she would wake up tomorrow and find that the Escobaran War had been a nightmare.

 

***

 

They were preparing to leave the mountains when Rulf Vorhalas found them.

It was not a pleasant reunion. Vorhalas flinched from Vorkosigan’s cold gaze, and would not look directly at Cordelia, who he’d last seen on the flagship as Serg’s prisoner - he hadn’t looked her in the eye then, either. 

"We guessed you were somewhere in the District, but we didn't know where," he muttered. "I was asking around the capital for weeks; nobody knew anything but the wildest rumors. Some said you'd gone to Beta. Padma wouldn't tell me a word of truth, he actually tried to set me searching on Kyril Island; it was Vortala who finally let it slip. He’d been in touch with your father."

"Had been?" Vorkosigan cut in sharply.

"Count Vortala isn’t in Vorbarr Sultana," Vorhalas said quietly. "He disappeared from his residence three days ago. No one has a clue where he is, not even his family. His sons are holed up in their capital. And he's not the only one. Someone told the Ministry I was asking for you, and if I hadn't left Vorbarr Sultana when I did..." he trailed off into silence. "If only that Captain hadn't stopped to pick up wounded," he muttered at last. "I thanked him, back then, but now I wish he'd left us both to die."

Vorkosigan's lips tightened. "Tell me."

It was, Cordelia thought, as if a dam had been breached. Vorhalas spoke for hours, words flooding from his lips; mysterious deaths, violence in Vorbarr Sultana, people disappearing from the streets. The stories went on and on, only pausing for the occasional drink when his voice was hoarse. And then at last his voice fell silent and he spoke in the Voice of his brother, and then he spoke of overthrowing Serg Vorbarra.

Cordelia sat against the wall and watched the furious argument that followed. Furious on Vorhalas’ part; Vorkosigan stood silent and unyielding as stone, allowing the older man’s words to wash over him like water. 

“We need the Hero of Escobar,” Vorhalas said at last, and Vorkosigan turned on his heel and walked out of the cave.

Vorhalas stood bewildered for a moment, then strode out into the light after him, trailed by Cordelia. She saw him go forward and seize Vorkosigan by the shoulders, shaking him. Vorkosigan pushed him away, growling some angry reply. It was more emotion than Cordelia had seen him display in days.

“Escobar was my last campaign,” she heard. “Go back and find someone else. Or do the job yourself.”

“Think beyond your grief for one moment,” Vorhalas hissed. “They are whispering that Ezar’s heart attack was no such thing. Think of him, one last time. Would he have wanted this?”

Vorkosigan’s face paled and his lips thinned. “Damn Ezar Vorbarra,” he growled, then walked away again.

Vorhalas looked as shocked as if Vorkosigan had just punched him in the face. He turned and gave Cordelia a desperate look.

If he hoped for support from her, he was mistaken. “He’s coming back to Beta with me,” she informed him.  _Your people have taken enough from him._

Vorhalas’s face was a mixture of anger and defeat. “You don't know what you do. He could save us all.” Then, softly:  “I think he may be the only one who can, now.”

“I don’t see why,” Cordelia retorted. “I know Aral’s your best, but you have other tacticians, surely, and other Count’s heirs. If you’re really his friend, you’ll let him save himself.” 

Vorhalas shook his head. “You don’t understand who he is at all, do you?”

Cordelia blinked at him in confusion, just as she heard Vorkosigan make a strange startled noise behind her. She turned to see a figure silhouetted against the setting sun. A man was walking up the hill toward them.

Vorhalas tensed, drawing a stunner and, after a quick glance, moving in front of Cordelia. Cordelia peered over his shoulder. As the man approached, she saw that one of his arms was swathed in makeshift bandages. He was limping, too, and leaning heavily on a stick for support. How had he managed to walk up this mountain path?

Vorkosigan was standing absolutely still. “Esterhazy,” he breathed.

The man looked up at Vorkosigan, and Cordelia saw a pair of ice-blue eyes, desperate and shattered.

“Count Vorkosigan, sir?”

 

***

 

Two hours before dawn, Cordelia found Vorkosigan sitting by their small fire. He was still awake, but his eyes had fallen shut and he was leaning tiredly against the wall. He had sat up the night with Vorhalas, listing armies and alliances while Cordelia sat by in silence, her head swimming with unfamiliar names. She’d been unable to think anything beyond:  _Another war? So soon?_  Was it a way of life for these Barrayarans, a stable state of war punctuated by brief bursts of peace, instead of the other way around?  _I could write a paper. Barrayaran Violently Dynamic Equilibrium._ The unbidden thought stopped her for a moment. It had been so long since she'd thought a thing like that.

Three simple words and everything had changed. The words hadn’t taken away Vorkosigan’s ghosts, but furious grief now seemed to have driven him past them. But for how long?

Vorkosigan opened his eyes and saw her. Cordelia took his offered hand and lowered herself to the floor beside him, warming her hands by the fire. For all the nightmares and long silences of the past weeks, she and Vorkosigan had settled into a companionable routine, and Cordelia knew he could read the question in her eyes.  _So where do we go from here?_

Vorkosigan picked up a worn fatigue jacket from the ground and put it around Cordelia, smoothing it over her shoulders. His hands lingered only a moment too long. “I’ve spoken to Rulf,” he said quietly. “Count Vorhalas has means to get you safely into Vorbarr Sultana. There would be no questions asked.”

Cordelia’s heart leaped at the words. A jumpship back home, back to her mother and brother. She could return to the Survey, take a ship and leave Barrayar and its chaos far behind. For a moment her mind whirled with visions of distant stars, the distraction of shipboard routine, the oblivion of deep space...

But it would mean leaving him behind. 

The fire crackled in the silence, dancing and leaping before their eyes. Vorkosigan gazed steadily into it, and Cordelia could see the future writing itself in those red-gold flames, the fires of this world slowly rising to consume him. 

It didn’t work the way she wanted. Even if she could go back to the time before this madness, she couldn’t undo what had happened. The nightmares would remain. And however many wormholes she crossed, she couldn’t escape the knowledge that the nightmares were real, that the world she'd left behind was destroying its children. It would break him first, she knew; she could see him grinding himself to death in the long battles ahead, fighting and dying in the name of duty, with only his ghosts for company along the way.

 _Duty_ , she reminded herself shakily, averting her eyes. She had a duty too, and it was not to this man, nor to this planet. She had a family. She had peace and safety waiting to welcome her on the other side of the wormhole. 

And her traitorous heart would cast them all away – for what? For the spark in a pair of smoke-gray eyes, for a smile half-glimpsed in the light of an alien sun? For this world of blood and madness, and this breathtaking beauty of pain, fire-forged in its heart?

And yet, when she opened her mouth to say the obvious -  _yes, I'll go -_ she found that she couldn't; and worse, that some part of her had known it all along.

_They'd never let me back into Survey. No psych-profile would clear me._

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Only the smallest flicker of pain crossed his face. “Very well. We’ll have to think about the safest way to get you there, but –“

She stopped him with a shake of her head. “My apologies. I was answering a different question.”

Aral blinked. “Dear Captain, you can trust them - better them than me, in fact." His voice fell darkly. "They hope to restore their honor through me, though I can't imagine why. But if you wish, I’ll take you --”

As an escort; she knew there was no longer any question of his accompanying her to safety. “No,” Cordelia said faintly, making him look even more confused. She smiled a little. “Forgive me; I’m being incoherent. I meant – yes. Permanently.”

He didn’t seem to register her words for a few moments. Then they sank in, and he looked up at her. “You’ll - stay?” His voice was uncertain, disbelieving – but his eyes were blazing brighter than the fire, now. Cordelia found herself transfixed by those eyes. She had grown used to seeing them dulled with pain, but now for a moment she could see him as he had been when they first met, and the sight took her breath away as easily as it had then.

He caught her hand tightly and spoke in a low, earnest voice. “Cordelia - you don’t realize what it would be like. We would have to live in constant hiding - no safety, no comfort, no place to call home. Nor any promise of them in the future. It would be almost certain death. Worse than death, if captured again.” 

Cordelia twisted around and faced him. “I know exactly what it’s like,” she said. “We’re already hunted fugitives. Now we’ll be hunted fugitives fighting back. I know which I’d prefer.”  She covered his hand with her own. “Someone once told me that exile, for no other motive than ease, would be the last defeat, with no seed of future victory in it. I thought it was wise then; I still think so. Also, if there’s anyone who can wrest victory out of this mess, it’s you."

Vorkosigan stared at her. “Not alone," he whispered at last. "With you... with you, perhaps.”

Cordelia shifted closer to him, but he held her back. "Tell me this," he whispered. "If you were to be hurt because of my actions... if I were to lie to you, if I were not what you think me to be... would you still wish to stay?"

"I know who and what you are," she said firmly, laying a hand on his face. "And I choose to trust you." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He was still for an instant; then he kissed her, slowly and then desperately, as if he expected at any moment to wake up and find that it had all been a dream.

 

***

 

At dawn Vorkosigan walked out into the sunlight, broke a branch from a leafless tree and drew a lopsided circle in the mud.  Vorhalas and Esterhazy’s wife were dragged up to stand outside it, both looking sleepy and confused.

Aral wore black Barrayaran fatigues, faded and mud-crusted; so did Cordelia. The bloodstained sleeves seemed most suitable for this ceremony. It made her feel as if they were continuing their old filth-collection contest, only this time she was the front-runner.

She repeated the Barrayaran vows without making a mistake, and as she spoke she could feel the weight of the archaic words, binding her ever more firmly to this man, to this world, to its duties and obligations and wars. But she did not falter; she spoke the last word, tied the last knot, gave him her hand.

“Countess Vorkosigan,” he whispered, taking her in his arms, and Cordelia slipped her other hand into the pocket of her fatigues and tore the sheet of Betan flimsy in half. 

And somewhere in the back of her head, a small, almost silent voice whispered:  _What have I done?_

 


End file.
